Late morning, coffee
Some clients need writing. Some clients need clothing and wardrobe assistance. Some clients need to learn to accessorize. Some need old fashioned PR. And some need a man cave. The Norwegian loved nothing more than losing himself in a good book and a B&B-filled crystal goblet. The man cave concept is not new to me.
That men need a place to escape their work, family and life’s troubles is something women don’t generally understand. With the exception of writer women, who yearn for a room filled with luxurious fabrics, Grey Goose and a stack of books. These women ooze, “I vant to be alone.” When you drag them out, they are a laugh riot and always behave impeccably, but given their druthers, a suitably appointed cave is their first choice.
A list is compiled of places a man might find suitable for cave dwelling. I visit and find, in the darkness of most of them, men are indeed surprised to see a duchess breeze through the door and lower her sunglasses for a closer look. One such place is a private cigar bar hidden away in my beloved Scottsdale.
I am transported back in time to the speakeasies of the depression. Squee. I love a visit to any time that does not involve cell phones, computers or paraphernalia interrupting human contact. If I’m going to meet face to face with you, at least pay attention. Pfft. Etiquette tip for the day dolls. People notice. I become breathless when people speak eye to eye, leaning in to converse privately, taking in all manner of expression and wondering over a raised eyebrow or tilt of the chin.
The club is decorated by a man, basically a room filled with leather recliners. Is there something more a man cave requires? Oh, yes, ten televisions. And liquor cabinets. And take out food. And poker tables. And a back room. And a little three hole golf. And a room, at two in the afternoon, filled with only men. They do not rise when I approach. After all, I have invaded their lair.
They do, however, openly stare, faces etched with the question, “Who is the chick and what’s she doing here?” Don’t worry boys, just bringing you a new friend. Perhaps. Little do they know, The Norwegian and I enjoyed many a cigar in our time, always letting it pass between us ala Frank and Claire Underwood and their single shared cigarette at day’s end. The only thing you’ve got on me boys is we’re indoors and I am fretting that the stench may fill my curls.
The owner, sweet but totally flummoxed to have a girl perusing his joint, shows me his wares. Hundreds of cigars. Private liquor lockers, humidors and a party room. If they added some ventilation, let in some light, placed an exquisite handwoven rug across the floor and had someone doing nails, I might move in.